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IT was a maid of my country
As she came by a hawthorn tree,
As full of flowers as might be seen,
She marvell'd to see the tree so green. 

At last she asked of this tree,
How came this freshness unto thee,
And every branch so fair and clean,
I marvel that you grow so green.

The tree made answer by and by,
I have good cause to grow triumphantly,
The sweetest dew that ever be seen,
Doth fall on me to keep me green.

Yea, quoth the maid, but where you grow,
You stand at hand for every blow,
Of every man for to be seen,
I marvel that you grow so green.

Though many one take flowers from me,
And many a branch out of my tree,
I have such store they will not be seen,
For more and more my twedges grow green. 

But how, and they chance to cut thee down,
And carry thy branches into the town?
Then will they never no more be seen,
To grow again so fresh and green.

Though that you do, it is no boot,
Although they cut me to the root,
Next year again I will be seen,
To bud my branches fresh and green.

And you, fair maid, cannot do so,
For if you let your maidhood go,
Then will it never no more be seen,
As I with my branches can grow green.

The maid with that began to blush,
And turned her from the hawthorn bush,
She thought herself so fair and clean,
Her beauty still would ever grow green.

When that she heard this marvellous doubt,
She wandered still then all about,
Suspecting still what she would ween,
Her maidhead lost would never be seen.

With many a sigh she went her way,
To see how she made herself so gay,
To walk, to see, and to be seen,
And so outfaced the hawthorn green.

Besides all that, it put her in lear,
To talk with company any where,
For fear to lose the thing that should be seen,
To grow as were the hawthorn green.

But after this, never I could hear
Of this fair maiden any where,
That ever she was in forest seen,
To talk again of the hawthorn green.



THROUGH a fair forest as I went
     Upon a summer's day,
I met a woodman quaint and gent, 
Yet in a strange array.

I marvell'd much at his disguise,
     Whom I did know so well,
But thus in terms both grave and wise,
     His mind he 'gan to tell.

Friend, muse not at this fond array,
     But list a while to me,
For it hath holped me to survey,
     What I shall show to thee.

Long liv'd I in this forest fair,
     Till weary of my weal,
Abroad in walks I would repair,
     As now I will reveal.

My first day's walk was to the court,
     Where beauty fed mine eyes,
Yet found I that the courtly sport,
     Did mask in sly disguise.

For falsehood sat in fairest looks,
     And friend to friend was coy,
Court-favour fill'd but empty rooks,
     And there I found no joy.

Desert went naked in the cold,
     When crouching craft was fed,
Sweet words were cheaply bought and sold,
     But none that stood in stead.

Wit was employed for each man's own,
     Plain-meaning came too short,
All these devices seen and known,
     Made me forsake the court.

Unto the city next I went,
     In hope of better hap,
Where liberally I launch'd and spent,
     As set on fortune's lap.

The little stock I had in store
     Methought would ne'er be done,
Friends flocked about me more and more,
     As quickly lost as won.

For when I spent, then they were kind,
     But when my purse did fail,
The foremost man came last behind,
     Thus love with wealth doth quail.

Once more for footing yet I strove,
     Although the world did frown,
But they before that held me up,
     Together trod me down.

And lest once more I should arise,
     They sought my quite decay,
Then got I into this disguise,
     And thence I stole away.

And in my mind (methought) I said,
     Lord bless me from the city,
Where simpleness is thus betray'd,
     Without remorse or pity.

Yet would I not give over so,
     But once more try my fate,
And to the country then I go,
     To live in quiet state.

There did appear no subtile shows,
     But yea and nay went smoothly,
But, Lord, how country folks can gloze,
     When they speak most untruly!

More craft was in a buttonn'd cap,
     And in an old wife's rail,
Than in my life it was my hap
     To see on down or dale.

There was no open forgery,
     But under-handed gleaning,
Which they call country policy,
     But hath a worser meaning.

Some good bold face bears out the wrong,
     Because he gains thereby,
The poor man's back is cracked ere long,
     Yet there he lets him lie.

And no degree among them all,
     But had such close intending,
That I upon my knees did fall,
     And prayed for their amending. 

Back to the woods I got again,
     In mind perplexed sore,
Where I found ease of all my pain,
     And mean to stray no more.

There, city, court, nor country too,
     Can any way annoy me,
But as a woodman ought to do,
     I freely may employ me.

There live I quietly alone,
     And none to trip my talk,
Wherefore when I am dead and gone,
     Think on the woodman's walk.


"Jacke Dove's Resolution, by which he doth shew,
That he cares not a rush how ere the world goe."

To the tune of — To drive the cold winter away

TO all my good friends, these presents I send,
     Yet neither to beg nor to crave,
For though some have store, and I am but Poor,
     I'm content with that little I have
And I'll ne'er for my want turn sycophant,
      (Though many there be that do so,)
But I'll honest be, love them that love me,
     And care not how ere the world go.

And though fortune frown, I'll not cast myself down,
     But mildly bear what doth fall,
Care will make me but worse, and ne'er fill my purse,
     But the day will come may mend all,
Then 'tis but a folly, for that to be sorry,
     Which must whether I will or no,
But impatience in rest, then I'll hope for the best,
     And care not how ere the world go.

For why should a man care, or drown in despair,
     Though his fortunes be ne'er so unkind,
Why should I be sad, for what I ne'er had,
     Or foolishly trouble my mind,
And I do hate to pine at my fate,
     There's none but fools will do so,
I'll laugh and be fat, for care kills a cat,
     And I care not how ere the world go.

To sigh and to wail, what will it prevail,
     Or any whit better my fare,
When a little good mirth, 'mongst friends is more worth,
     And better than a great deal of care;
Then I'll cheer up myself, for content is great wealth,
     Let sighing and sorrowing go,
I'll laugh and be merry, with a cup of old sherry,
     And care not how ere the world go.

Though many a chuff hath more than enough,
     Why should I repine at their bliss,
If I am content with what God bath sent,
     I think I do not amiss:
Let others have wealth, so I have my health,
     And money to pay what I owe,
I'll laugh and be merry, sing down a down derry,
     And care not how ere the world go.

I'll make much of one, for when I am gone,
     Then what's all the world unto me,
I'll not be a slave to that which I have,
     But 'mongst my friends let it flee;
And least there rise debate, about my estate,
     When my head's laid full low,
Or some knaves circumvent it, to whom
     I ne'er meant it, I'll spend it how ere the world go.


Some men do suppose, to go in brave cloaths,
     Doth purchase a great deal of respect,
Though I am but poor, I run not on score,
     I think myself honestly deckt;
Let others go brave, 'tis my own that I have,
     And I think they cannot say so,
And I like that I wear, though it cost not so dear,
     And I care not how ere the world go.

I'd rather go mean, than be like to them,
     Which living in pomp and state,
Maintain all their bravery, with private knavery,
     Getting gold at any rate;
Such conscience profess, but use nothing less,
     Deceiving the world with a shew,
But the time it may come, will pay such knaves home,
     But I care not how ere the world go.

Your delicate cates your hypocrites eat,
     And wine of the best do drink,
Much money they spend, but to little end,
     And ne'er on their end they think:
Low shrubs be secure, when cedars endure
     All storms and tempests that blow,
Let others rise high, but so will not I,
     For I care not how ere the world go.

For ambition's best scene, is but a fine dream,
     Which for a time tickles the mind,
And the hap of an hour, with such envy may low'r,
     As may turn all one's hopes into wind,
Then worse than before, they may sigh and deplore,
     To see themselves cast off so low,
When I all the while do sit and smile,
     And care not how ere the world go.

The flattering curs, that frown upon furs,
     And hang on the nobleman's beck,
That crouch at their heel whilst their bounty they feel,
     Professing all love and respect,
Yet when they do fall, they run away all,
     But I hate to dissemble so,
What I do for my part shall come from my heart,
     And I care not how ere the world go.

I'll wrong none, not I, but if some through envy,
     Do wrong me without a cause,
Or if me they disdain, I'll slight them again,
     And reckon not of it two straws:
Dissembling I corn, for I am free born,
     My happiness lies not below;
Though my words they want art, I speak from my heart,
     And I care not how ere the world goes.




Faithful Friendship.

IN stately Rome sometime did dwell
     A man of noble fame,
Who had a son of seemly shape,
     Alphonso was his name;
When he was grown and come to age,
     His father thought it best,
To send his son to Athens fair
     Where Wisdom's school did rest.

And when he was to Athens come,
     Good lectures for to learn,
A place to board him with delight,
     His friends did well discern,
A noble knight of Athens' town
     Of him did take the charge,
Who had a son Ganselo called,
     Just of his pitch and age.

In stature and in person both,
     In favour, speech, and face,
In quality and conditions
     They 'greed in every place,
So like they were in all respects,
     The one unto the other,
They were not known but by their names,
     Of father or of mother.

And as in favour they were found,
     Alike in all respects,
Ev'n so they did most dearly love;
     As prov'd by good effects,
Ganselo lov'd a lady fair,
     Which did in Athens dwell,
Who was in beauty peerless found,
     So far she did excel.

Upon a time it chanced so,
     As fancy did him move,
That he would visit for delight
     His lady and his love,
And to his true and faithful friend
     He did declare the same,
Asking of him if he would see
     That fair and comely dame.

Alphonso did thereto agree,
     And with Ganselo went
To see the lady which he lov'd,
     Which bred his discontent:
But when he cast his crystal eyes
     Upon her angel hue,
The beauty of that lady bright
     Did straight his heart subdue.

His gentle heart so wounded was
     With that fair lady's face,
That afterwards he daily liv'd
     In sad and woful case.
And of his grief he knew not how
     Therefore to make an end,
For that he knew the lady's love
     Was yielded to his friend.

Thus being sore perplexed in mind,
     Upon his bed he lay,
Like one whom death and deep despair
     Had almost worn away.
His friend Ganselo, that did see
     His grief and great distress,
At length requested for to know,
     His cause of heaviness.

With much ado at length he told
     The truth unto his friend,
Who did relieve his inward woe
     With comfort to the end;
Take courage then, dear friend, quoth he,
     Though she through love be mine,
My right I will resign to thee,
     The lady shall be thine.

You know our favours are alike,
     Our speech also likewise,
This day in mine apparell
     You shall yourself disguise,
And unto church then shall you go
     Directly in my stead;
Lo, though my friends suppose 'tis I,
     You shall the lady wed.

Alphonso was so well appaid,
     And as they had decreed,
He went that day, and wedded plain
     The lady there indeed:
But when the nuptial feast was done,
     And Phoebus quite was fled,
The lady for Ganselo took
     Alphonso to her bed.

That night they spent in pleasant sport,
     And when the day was come,
A post for fair Alphonso came
     To fetch him home to Rome.
Then was the matter plainly prov'd
     Alphonso wedded was,
And not Ganselo to that dame,
     Which brought great woe, alas!

Alphonso being gone to Rome
     With this his lady gay,
Ganselo's friends and kindred all
     In such a rage did stay,
That they deprived him of his wealth,
     His land, and rich attire,
And banished him their country quite,
     In rage and wrathful ire.

With sad and pensive thoughts, alas!
     Ganselo wandered then,
Who was constrained through want to beg
     Relief of many men:
In this distress oft would he say
     To Rome I mean to go
To seek Alphonso, my dear friend,
     Who will relieve my woe.

To Rome when poor Ganselo came,
     And found Alphonso's place,
Which was so famous, huge, and fair,
     Himself in such poor case,
He was ashamed to shew himself
     In that his poor array,
Saying Alphonso knows me well
     If he would come this way.

Therefore he staid within the street,
     Alphonso then came by,
But heeded not Ganselo poor,
     His friend that stood so nigh.
Which grieved Ganselo to the heart,
     Quoth he, and is it so?
Doth proud Alphonso now disdain
     His friend indeed to know.

In desperate sort away he went
     Into a barn hard by,
And presently he drew his knife,
     Thinking thereby to die.
And bitterly in sorrow there
     He did lament and weep,
And being over-weighed with grief,
     He there fell fast asleep.

While soundly there he sweetly slept,
     Came in a murdering thief,
And saw a naked knife lie by
     This man so full of grief;
The knife so bright he took up straight,
     And went away amain,
And thrust it in a murder'd man
     Which he before had slain.

And afterwards he went with speed
     And put this bloody knife
Into his hand that sleeping lay,
     To save himself from strife:
Which done, away in haste he ran,
     And when that search was made,
Ganselo with his bloody knife, 
     Was for the murder staid,

And brought before the magistrate,
     Who did confess most plain,
That he indeed with, that same knife
     The murder'd man had slain.
Alphonso sitting with the judge,
     And knowing Ganselo's face,
To save his friend did say himself
     Was guilty in that case.

None, quoth Alphonso, kill'd the man,
     My lord, but only I,
And therefore set this poor man free,
     And let me justly die.
Thus while for death these faithful friends,
     In striving did proceed,
The man before the senate came,
     That did the fact indeed.

Who being moved with remorse,
     Their friendly hearts to see,
Did say before the judges plain
     None did the fact but he.
Thus when the truth was plainly told,
     Of all sides joy was seen,
Alphonso did embrace his friend
     Which had so woful been.

In rich array he clothed him
     As fitted his degree,
And helped him to his lands again
     And former dignity.
The murderer for telling truth
     Had pardon at that time,
Who afterwards lamented much
     His foul and grievous crime.



[From a black letter copy, in the Pepys Collection.]

COMPLAIN, my lute, complain on him,
     That stays so long away,
He promis'd to be here ere this,
     But still unkind doth stay:
But now the proverb true I find, 
     Once out of sight, then out of mind,
Hey ho, my heart is full of woe!

Peace, lyre, peace, it is not so,
     He'll by and by be here,
But every one that is in love
     Thinks every hour a year.
Hark, hark! methinks I hear one knock,
     Run quickly then, and turn the lock,
Then farewell all my care and woe.

Come, gallant, now, come loiterer,
     For I must chide with thee,
But yet I will forgive thee once,
     Come, sit thee down by me,
Fair lady, rest yourself content,
     I will endure your punishment,
And then we shall be friends again.
For every hour that I have staid
     So long from thee away,
A thousand kisses will I give,
     Receive them ready pay.
And if we chance to count amiss,
     Again we'll reckon them every kiss,
For he is blest that's punisht so.

And if those thousand kisses then,
     We chance to count aright,
We shall not need to count again,
     Till we in bed do light,
And then be sure that thou shalt have,
     Thy reckoning just as thou shalt crave,
So shall we still agree as one.

And thus they spent the silent night,
     In sweet delightful sport,
Till Phoebus with his beams so bright,
     From out the fiery port
Did blush to see the sweet content,
     In sable night so vainly spent,
Betwixt these lovers two.

And then this gallant did persuade,
     That he might now be gone,
Sweet-heart, quoth he, I am afraid,
     That I have stay'd too long.
And wilt thou then be gone, quoth she,
     And will no longer stay with me?
Then welcome all my care and woe.

And then she took her lute in hand,
     And thus began to play,
Her heart was faint, she could not stand;
     But on her bed she lay,
And art thou gone, my love? quoth she
     Complain, my lute, complain with me,
Untill that he doth come again.




A brief Relation how that valiant Knight and heroick champion, Sir Eglamore, bravely fought with, and manfully slew a terrible huge great monstrous Dragon."

To a pleasant new tune.

[In the black letter copies; the words "with his fa, la, lanctre down dilie," occur at the end of each of the two first verses, and of the last verse of each stanza. It may be sufficient to intimate this to the reader, without repeating them here.]

SIR EGLAMORE, that valiant knight,
He fetcht his sword, and he went to fight;
As he went over hill and dale,
All clothed in his coat of mail.

A huge great dragon leapt out of his den,
Which had killed the lord knows how many men,
But when he saw Sir Eglamore,
Good lack, had you seen how this dragon did roar!

This dragon, he had a plaguy hide,
Which could both sword and spear abide,
He could not enter with hacks and cuts, [and guts.
Which vexed the knight to the very heart's blood

All the trees in the wood did shake,
Stars did tremble, and men did quake,
But had you seen how the birds lay peeping,
'Twould have made a man's heart to fall a weeping.

But it was now too late to fear,
For it was come to fight dog, fight bear,
And as a yawning he did fall,
He thrust his sword in, hilt and all.

But now as the knight in choler did burn,
He owed the dragon a shrewd good turn,
In at his mouth his sword he bent,
The hilt appeared at his fundament.

Then the dragon, like a coward, began for to fly,
Unto his den that was hard by,
And there he laid him down, and roar'd,
The knight was vexed for his sword.

The sword that was a right good blade
As ever Turk or Spaniard made,
I for my part do forsake it,
And he that will fetch it, let him take it.

When all this was done, to the ale-house he went,
And by and by his twopence he spent,
For he was so hot with tugging with the dragon,
That nothing would quench him but a whole flaggon.

Now God preserve our King and Queen,
And eke in London may be seen,
As many knights, and as many more,
And all so good as Sir Eglamore.



As it befell upon one time,
     About Midsummer of the year,
Every man was taxed of his crime,
     For stealing the good lord bishop's mare.

The good Lord Screw he saddled a horse,
     And rid after this same scrime,
Before he did get over the moss,
     There was he aware of Sir Hugh the Crime.

Turn, O turn, thou false traitor,
     Turn and yield thyself unto me,
Thou hast stolen the lord bishop's mare,
     And now thou thinkest away to flee.

No, soft, Lord Screw, that may not be,
     Here is a broad sword by my side,
And if that thou can'st conquer me,
     The victory will soon be tried.

I ne'er was afraid of a traitor bold,
     Although thy name be Hugh in the Grime,
I'll make thee repent thy speeches foul,
     If day and life but give me time.

Then do thy worst, thou good Lord Screw,
     And deal your blows as fast as you can,
It will be tried between me and you,
     Which of us two shall be the best man.


Thus as they dealt in blows so free,
     And both so bloody at that time,
Over the moss ten yeomen they see,
     Come for to take Sir Hugh, in the Grime.

Sir Hugh set his back against a tree,
     And then the men encompast him round,
His mickle sword from his hand did flee,
     And then they brought Sir Hugh to the ground.

Sir Hugh of the Grime now taken is,
     And brought back to Garland town,
The good wives all in Garland town,
     Sir Hugh in the Grime thou'st ne'er gang down.

The good lord bishop is come to the
     And on the bench is set so high,
And every man was taxed to his crime,
     At length he called Sir Hugh in the Grime.

Here am I thou false bishop,
     Thy humours all to fulfill,
I do not think my fact so great,
     But thou mayst put it into thy own will.

The quest of jury men was called,
     The best that was in Garland town,
Eleven of them spoke all in a breast,
     Sir Hugh in the Grime thou'st ne'er gang down.

Then other questy men were called,
     The best that were in Rumary,
Twelve of them spoke all in a breast,
     Sir Hugh in the Grime, thou'st now guilty.

Then came down my good Lord Bowles,
     Falling down upon his knee,
Five hundred pieces of gold would I give
     To grant Sir Hugh of the Grime to me.

Peace, peace, my good Lord Bowles,
     And of your speeches set them by,
If there be eleven Grimes all of a name,
     Then, by my honour they all should die.

Then came down my good Lady Ward,
     Falling down upon her knee,
Five hundred measures of gold I'll give
     To grant Sir Hugh of the Grime to me.

Peace, peace, my good Lady Ward,
     None of your proffers shall him buy,
For if there be twelve Grimes all of a name,
     By any own honour they all shall die.

Sir Hugh of the Grime's condemn'd to die,
     And of his friends he had no lack,
Fourteen foot he leapt in his ward,
     His hands bound fast upon his back.

Then he lookt over his left shoulder,
     To see whom he could see or spy,
There was he aware of his father dear,
     Came tearing his hair most pittifully.

Peace, peace, my father dear,
     And of your speeches set them by;
Though they have bereaved me of my life,
     They cannot bereave me of heaven so high.

He lookt over his right shoulder,
     To see whom he could see or spy,
There was he aware of his mother dear,
     Came tearing her hair most pitifully.

Pray have me remember'd to Peggy my wife,
     As she and I walkt over the moor,
She was the causer of my life,
     And with the old bishop she play'd the whore.

Here, Johnny Armstrong, take thou my sword,
     That is made of mettle so fine,
And when thou com'st to the border side,
     Remember the death of Sir Hugh of the Grime.



A celebrated orator and distinguished genius has pronounced the days of chivalry to be gone for ever; it may therefore not be uninteresting to prefix to this Ballad, a description of the habit of a Knight, written in days of yore, while tilts and tournaments were yet in vogue, and "a thousand swords ready to leap from their scabbards to revenge even a look displeasing" to a lady. The extract is given from a book of unusually rare occurrence.

"The Knight ought to be all armed upon a horse, in such wise that he have a helm on his head, and a spear in his right band, and covered with his shield, a sword and a mace on his left side, clad with a hawberk, and plates before his breast, leg harness on his legs, spurs on his heels; on his hands his gauntlet; his horse well broken and taught, and apt to battle, and covered with arms."

[See a Treatise of the Game of Chess, printed by Caxton.]

In "the Book of Good Maners," also printed by Caxton, in 1487, is a chapter "how Knights ought to govern themselves," from which I extract two passages: "A Knight ought to be a man among a thousand; good and honour­able; courageous of heart; true in his deeds; mighty and wise; hardy and prudent; and ready to defend the right of his country, and of them to whom he is bound to serve; and also of them. of whom he hath the governance.

"The Knights ought to exercise and accustom them [selves] in feats of arms; and ought not to be idle in seeking and following their pleasure, and ease. I suppose if a search should be made how many knights know their horses well, and their horses them, and have their harness and habili­ments of war ready, I trow there should not many be founden."

I am indebted to the Rev. T. F, Dibden, for the reference to "the Book of Good Maners."

Now of the seven champions here
     My purpose is to write,
To show how they with sword and spear
     Put many foes to flight:
Distressed ladies to release.
     And captives bound in chains;
That Christian glory to encrease,
     Which evermore remains. 

First I give you to understand
     That great St. George by name,
Was the true champion of our land,
     And of his birth and fame;
And of his noble mother's dream,
     Before that he was born,
The which to her did clearly seem
     Her days would be forlorn.

This was her dream; that she did bear
     A dragon in her womb,
Which griev'd this noble lady fair,
     'Cause death must be her doom.
This sorrow she could not conceal,
     So dismal was her fear,
So that she did the same reveal
     Unto her husband dear;

Who went for to inquire straight
     Of an enchantress,
When knocking at her iron gate,
     Her answer it was this:
"The lady shall bring forth a son,
     By whom, in tract of time,
Great noble actions shall be done,
     He will to honour climb:

For he shall be in banners wore,
     This truth I will maintain
Your lady she shall die before
     You see her face again."
His leave he took, and home he went,
     His wife departed lay;
But that which did his grief augment
     The child was stole away.

Then did he travel in despair,
     Where soon with grief he died,
While the young child, his son and heir,
     Did constantly abide
With the wise lady of the grove,
     In her enchanted cell;
Amongst the woods he oft did rove,
     His beauty pleased her well.

Blinded with love, she did impart,
     Upon a certain day,
To him her cunning magic art,
     And where six champions lay
Within a brazen castle strong,
     By an enchanted sleep,
And where they had continued long,
     She did the castle keep.

She taught and show'd him every thing
     Thro' being free and fond;
Which did her fatal ruin bring;
     Far with a silver wand
He clos'd her up into a rock,
     By giving one small stroke;
So took possession of her stock,
     And the enchantment broke.

Those Christian champions being freed
     From their enchanted state,
Each mounted on his prancing steed,
     And took to travel straight;
Where we will leave them to pursue
     Kind fortune's favours still,
To treat of our own champion, who
     Did courts with wonders fill.

For as he came to understand
     At an old hermit's cell,
How in the vast Egyptian land
     A dragon fierce and fell
Threatened the ruin of them all,
     By his devouring jaws,
His sword releas'd them from that thrall,
     And soon remov'd the cause.

This dreadful dragon must destroy
     A virgin every day,
Or else with stinks he'll them. annoy,
     And many thousands slay.
At length the king's own daughter dear,
     For whom the court did mourn,
Was brought to be devoured here,
     For she must take her turn.

The king by proclamation, said,
     If any hardy knight
Could free this fair young royal maid,
     And slay the dragon quite,
Then should he have her for his bride,
     And after death likewise
His crown and kingdom too beside;
     St. George he won the prize.

When many hardy strokes he'd dealt,
     And could not pierce his hide,
He run his sword up to the hilt
     In at the dragon's side;
By which he did his life destroy,
     Which cheer'd the drooping king,
This caused an universal joy,
     Sweet peals of bells did ring.

The daughter of a king for pride,
     Transformed into a tree
Of mulberries, which Denis spied,
     And being hungry
Of that fair fruit he ate a part,
     And was transformed likewise
Into the fashion of a hart,
     For seven years precise.

At which he long bewail'd the loss
     Of manly shape, then goes
To him his true and trusty horse,
     And brings a blushing rose,
By which the magic spell was broke,
     And both were fairly freed
From the enchanted heavy yoke,
     They then in love agreed.

Now we come to St. James of Spain,
     Who slew a mighty boar,
In hopes that he might honour gain,
     But he must die therefore.
Who was allow'd his death to choose,
     Which was by virgins darts,
But they the same did all refuse,
     So tender were their hearts.

The king's daughter at length by lot,
     Was doomed to work his woe,
From her fair hands a fatal shot,
     Out of a golden bow,
Must put a period 'to the strife,
     At which grief did her seize,
She of her father begg'd his life
     Upon her bended knees.

Saying, my gracious sovereign Lord,
     And honoured father dear,
He well deserves a large reward,
     Then be not so severe;
Give me his life. He grants the boon,
     And then without delay,
This Spanish champion, ere 'twas noon,
     Rid with her quite away.

Now come we to St. Anthony,
     A man with valour fraught,
The champion of fair Italy,
     Who many wonders wrought.
First, he a mighty giant slew,
     The terror of mankind,
Young ladies fair, pure virgins too,
     This giant kept confined,

Within his castle wall's of stone,
     And gates of solid brass,
Where seven ladies made their moan,
     But out they could not pass.
Many brave lords and knights likewise
     To free them did engage,
Who fell a bleeding sacrifice
     To this fierce giant's rage.

Fair daughters to a royal king,
     Yet fortune, after all,
Did our renowned champion bring
     To free them from their thrall.
Assisted by the hand of heaven,
     He ventured life and limb,
Behold the fairest of the seven,
     She fell in love with him.

That champion good, bold St. Andrew,
     The famous Scottish knight,
Dark gloomy desarts travell'd through,
     Where Phoebus gave no light;
Haunted with spirits for a while,
     His weary course he steers,
Till fortune blessed him with a smile,
     And shook off all his fears.

This Christian champion travell'd long
     Till at the length he came
Unto the giant's castle strong,
     Great Blanderon by name;
Where the king's daughters were transform'd
     Into the shape of swans,
Tho' them, he freed, their father storm'd,
     But he his malice shuns.

For though five hundred armed knights
     Did straight beset him round,
Our Christian champion with them fights,
     Till on the heathen ground
Most of those Pagans bleeding lay,
     Which much perplex'd the king;
The Scottish champion clears the way,
     Which was a glorious thing. 

St. Patrick too of Ireland,
     That noble knight of fame,
He travelled, as we understand,
     Till at the length he came
Into a grove where satyrs dwelt,
     Where ladies he beheld,
Who had their raging fury felt
     And were with sorrow fill'd.

He drew his sword, and did maintain
     A sharp and bloody fray,
Till the ringleader he had slain,
     The rest soon fled away.
This done, he asked the ladies fair;
     Who were in silks array'd,
From whence they came, and who they were?
     They answered him and said:

We are all daughters to a king,
     Whom a brave Scottish knight
Did out of tribulation bring,
     He having took his flight,
Now after him we are in quest:
     St. Patrick then replies,
He is my friend, I cannot rest
     Till I find him likewise.

So, ladies, if you do intend
     To take your lot with me,
This sword of mine shall you defend
     From savage cruelty.
The ladies freely gave consent
     To travel many miles,
Through shady groves and woods they went
     In search of fortune's smiles.

The Christian champion, David, went
     To the Tartarian court,
Where at their tilt and tournament,
     And such like royal sport,
He overthrew the only son
     Of the Count Palatine;
This noble action being done
     His fame began to shine.

The young Count's sad and sudden death
     Turn'd all their joys to grief,
He bleeding lay, bereaved of breath,
     The father's son in chief:
But lords and ladies blazed the fame
     Of our brave champion bold;
Saying, they ought to write his name
     In characters of gold.

Here have I writ a fair account
     Of each heroic deed,
Done by these knights, which will surmount
     All those that shall succeed.
The ancient chronicles of kings,
     Ere since the world began,
Can't boast of such renowned things
     As these brave knights have done.

St. George he was for England,
     St. Dennis was for France,
St. James for Spain, whose valiant hand
     Did Christian fame advance:
St. Anthony for Italy,
     Andrew for Scots ne'er fails;
Patrick too stands for Ireland
     St. David was for Wales.

Thus have you those stout champions names
     In this renowned song,
Young captive ladies bound in chains,
     Confined in castles strong,
They did by knightly prowess free
     True honour to maintain,
Then let their lasting memory
     From age to age remain.


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